


Centennial

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Post-Game, endgame spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 18:03:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10702239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: In a hundred years, no one will remember what Noct was really like.





	Centennial

**Author's Note:**

> This was all building up to a really dumb punchline...

In a hundred years, no one would remember Noctis Lucis Caelum as he was. No one would remember the young man who wandered his own kingdom to perform everything from errands for farmers to destroying Imperial bases. No one would remember the way he’d cross paths with the same handful of professors and wanderers, or keep returning to the last bastions of his people to help them. Just as, in a hundred years, no one would remember the kindness of King Regis, or the heroes that had tried to fend off the inevitable loss of Insomnia, or even the heroes who had wandered with their young king. 

There were still pictures, of course. Theoretically, the Argentum Albums were still in continued print and circulation— still taught as part of the rebuilt Lucian Region as its history. The pictures of the King of Light in his youth, of the Decade of Night, of the New Dawn all gathered as a final record of the Kings of Lucis for the new generations. Even after the old heroes and companions disappeared— to Lestallum, to Galahd, to history where their family lines were lost in the stories and no one stepped up to confirm a relation. 

But a hundred years is a long time, and a long dead monarchy was far less important than spreading Insomnia’s returned wealth through new agreements and treaties with old allies like Accordo and Tenebrae. 

There were still memorials, of course. People passed the memorial to the King of Light each day. The Citadel marked new as a place of order and history, and the Tomb of Kings. There were still scholars of the events, even though heroes who lived them were long disappeared— long since joined their kings. But the memorials— the commemorations in particular— had taken on a new life the closer to the centennial celebrations the city got. 

It was a tradition now; the anniversary celebrated by retelling the story of the Sacrifice and the Decade of Night. Cute, cartoon daemons paraded around in pantomime while celebrated actors and actresses attended events for their own versions of the re-tellings. Insomnia lit up for the night in honour of a new dawn. Districts of the provinces still fighting for the recognition of their own heroes in the events— the scholars debating the inclusion of the Bastard King, Nyx Ulric, in the new canon each year as the “King for a Night” story never really died (thanks to Libertus, and later Gladiolus). 

It was tradition for the speeches and parties and festivals; for the political elite to stand before the ancient throne-room doors to give their thanks for the death of a boy a hundred years before. 

But the closer it was to that mark, to the hundredth year since the daemons burned away in the light and the creeping darkness of the Starscourge became just another debated plague in history, the ghosts started to appear. Nearly half a year before the Centennial celebrations, the old ghosts started to appear within the city. 

Old ghosts, ancient kings in ancient armours, standing watch along the ruins of the old city walls, standing in the streets like silent statue. The apparitions were contested at first— a new attraction, a new publicity model for the upcoming event. No one could place them from their armour— The Just, the Rogue, the Tall, the Wanderer, the Wise— their weapons were vaguely familiar, but no one knew what to make of them. These silent images of ancient kings, standing guard over the city. No one could approach them— the crackle of power isolating their positions, their little claims in the new city. Some appeared elsewhere in the region, as far away as the old train lines that led into the snowy wastes of Niflheim. 

The Last Oracle appeared in the Citadel first— holding her Trident, but smiling in welcome to those who ventured close— over a month before the anniversary date. She was the first to interact with the people, to step through the crowds come to see her ghostly image, to pick up the little blue flowers left in her wake around the great halls as she drew her own peace over the old building. Some viewers said that she had blood on her dress and her hair loose around her shoulders; others said that she looked like a child, skipping through the halls and looking for her friend. 

The Father was the next spirit to appear. He stood guard in the Citadel, before the heavy black doors that were only opened for these ceremonies— only opened to remember the King of Light and the new dawn. To most, the Father appeared as the others did, in full armour— full regalia— sword grasped firm in gloved hands. Compared to some of the other spirits that had appeared around the city, around the region, the apparition of King Regis was almost small, even caped and armoured and prepared for a battle that had already been one. But to others, the spirit of the Father appeared as he did in the surviving portraits, in the Argentum Albums: an older man with kind, green eyes, and an air of mischief and sorrow. 

But he stood guard at the doors, a shield barring the way to the ceremonial chambers. Barring the way to the throne with a crystalline remnant of power. And as a city watched— as they came to honour the old kings, the dead kings, as they realised the sudden swell in Lucian power was more than just a reminder of the old powers— the heavy doors behind the Father opened. 

The shield still barred the way— the Father still standing guard against the new world and the new people in his home— but the figures in the throne room could still be seen. But both too far from the great entrance halls to be seen clearly. 

It wasn’t until some travellers from Galahd arrived that the city realised that there was more than just a memorial happening. Some carried the name Ostium, others Amicitia. The shield fell for them, and the Father let them pass through the heavy doors, opened the way to the throne.

Inside, standing tall and at attention, Nyx smiled at the figure on the throne. There was no change in appearance like the other spirits, but he wore the clothes of Galahdian royalty: the King for a Night. But he stood like a Kingslglaive soldier, like the photos in the Albums. The same wolfish grin, the same confident air, a hand on the honed kukri at his side while the other rested on the shoulder of the King of Light. 

The travellers from Galahd paused in surprise with the politicians who had been allowed past the Father at the door. They stopped and smiled and stepped forward like supplicants, the politicians bowed deeply, but the travellers walked tall. 

The King of Light was practically a boy, having died at just thirty. But he smiled, with the same mischief of the Father now standing watch. There were pretty words spoken— ceremonies offered, pleas made— by the politicians of the new Insomnia; and the King of Light, still boyish now in peace, looked like he was trying not to laugh at the display. A hand lifted to cover his mouth politely— no armour to hide his amused looks, and glances up to the Galahdian at his side. To the Galahdian king who didn’t bother to hide the grin, who met the King of Light’s looks and simply shrugged his response to the supplications. 

And one of the travellers stepped forward, not bowing as he smiled and pulled out a letter from the small package he had carried with him. 

“Your majesty,” the man started, “I am the grandson of your Shield and he asked me to bring this gift to you before he died.”

The man set the spools of line out— the Galahdian made lures collected by a family for three generations— at the memorial plaque. He smiled, barely glancing at the awestruck politicians; “And grandfather wanted to say… ‘Sup, Noct. Thought you’d like these.”


End file.
